


Love and War (and Lemons)

by Erebeus



Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: 1950s, Angst, F/F, F/M, Lots of Angst, Non-Supers AU, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 06:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16034486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erebeus/pseuds/Erebeus
Summary: Because when life throws you lemons, you're supposed to make lemonade. Or are you?In which Helen doesn't give up, Bob is (like always) an awesome human being and they both help Gail find herself again.





	Love and War (and Lemons)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is my first fic I'm posting on Ao3.  
> Also this is based on @yamino's tumblr comics and I probably drew a lot (all?) my inspiration from the wonderful Elastigale discord group!  
> Go check out her comics if you haven't already. :)  
> P.S. This isn't really proofread very well because I wrote this at midnight. I apologize in advance for any stupid mistakes.

“Hey Skye! Are you going to go see the Christmas show they’re putting up in the park tomorrow?”

 

Gail shrugged in response, shoving her hands into her pockets.

 

“Aww. You should come!” Sidney pouted. “It’s supposed to be a bash! We’re all going together you know. Rick’s paying this time!”

 

Gail hummed noncommittally. Sometimes Gail thought Sidney was incapable of speaking in sentences without the audible exclamation mark. She nodded along to Sidney’s voice who had moved on to natter on about Rick’s sister and her wedding and who had got a new beau and who had proposed to whom and so on. The moment the clock struck five, Gail escaped the store and pulled out a cigarette to accompany her on the streets.

 

As she walked home, Gail watched the smoke escape from her mouth in beautiful wisps. The busy hum of New York wrapped around her like a warm blanket, drowning out the voice of her own mind. She fingered her last cigarette and pondered whether she wanted to go get a new deck. She knew she would regret it in the morning but decided against walking an extra block. She blew out another puff of smoke and adjusted her scarf to keep her warmer. Not that it mattered. Her hands were chilled—she’d forgotten her gloves again—and the rest of her was numb. Fumbling for her keys, Gail climbed up the stairs to her apartment. She dropped her keys thrice before managing to stick the key in the lock. She stepped inside and flung her purse at the sofa (or where she assumed the sofa was). _Home Sweet Home._

 

Not even bothering to turn on the lights, Gail stumbled her way to the bathroom and washed her face with the chilled water. Thankfully her house wasn’t that cold because she had left the stove on that morning. Her knee chafed, her head throbbed, and her scars itched. Everything was awful. She’d had to deal with customers more frantic and ruder than usual because of the looming Christmas gifts. She’d had at least three harried parents looking for perfect Christmas gifts for their three year olds ho ended up buying the first thing they looked at and as much as she loved children, there was a limit to the number of three year olds she could handle without wanting to fall off a cliff (and their parents, god, their parents were _worse_ ). Pulling on her nightshirt, Gail frowned at her reflection in the mirror. The reflection frowned back at her. She couldn’t remember the last time her reflection had smiled back at her. If Helen was here….Well she wasn’t. No point in thinking about her now.

 

Gail pulled her legs onto her bed and set about loosening her wooden leg. Taking the prosthetic and the extra sock off, Gail gingerly massaged her stump. Happy Christmas to her. She sat all alone in her two room apartment with her nightmares to keep her company. Outside the occasional chatterof people walking the streets washed into her room with shrieks of laughters when a particularly drunk group passed under her window. Dropping the prosthetic on her bed, Gail fished out the bottle of wine she’d nicked from Rick. After a glass (or was it two?) Gail was feeling a bit woozy and she could hear Helen chuckle in her ear ( _you silly goose why do you always think you can try surviving more than a few glasses of alcohol?_ ). Gail pouted at her girlfriend and whispered back, “you’re the one who tells me anything is possible when you try it.” She drunk another couple of glasses with Helen’s voice in her ear. Presently she went and withdrew the curtains. The moon was out and light flooded into her room. Maybe she should write a letter to Helen. Shouldn’t she? Helen deserved to know. She took out a pen and shakily started scrawling on the top

 

> _~~Helen ,~~ Dear Helen,_
> 
>  
> 
> _~~I love you~~ I wanted to let you know that ~~I didn’t die (surprise!)~~ I am back in the States. I know they held a funeral for me and all but they didn’t realize that I survived. ~~I promised you I’d come back. ~~ I know we haven’t talked in ~~years~~ a while and could we meet up sometime because ~~I still love you~~ I’d like to catch up with you. I’ve missed you ~~so much that it hurt it still hurts~~ lots. I suppose I’m curious about your life because I haven’t had much time to change much in my life since the war. And I just wanted to talk._
> 
>  

_Love,_

_Gail._

 

Gail supposed it was good enough. Especially considering she was drunk. She kept striking out stuff, but she did get her message across without looking like a lovesick teenager right? Right? Or had the war taken that from her too—the ability to write letters without sounding pathetic? 

 

The light flickered as a cloud passed in front of the moon, casting shadows in her bedroom. Suddenly, the dark of the night felt increasingly more oppressive and out came the memories of nights in the European sky filled with gunfire and the whoosh of bombs and the never ending chill settling into her skin, her bones, and eventually her heart. She remembered vividly the sound of people dying, and cities being wiped out, and the smell of smoke and sweet gasoline clogged her lungs, and the water replacing the air as she clung for her life. She curled into a ball as she remembered feel of the yoke in her hands and the rustle of the cheap Air Force uniforms. The air raid sirens blared through her head and Gail clapped her hands over her ears. Over and over her mind played her memories in a loop. Everything was too much. There were children dying and bombs dropping from her plane and she didn’t think she could do this anymore but no she wasn’t in Europe anymore and she could hear the laughter from the streets but no she was in the Atlantic again and water was cold so cold, so cold, cold, cold, cold.

 

When the panic subsided, Gail choked in deep gasping breaths and stifled her sobs. Her cheeks stung from where she had dug in her nail during her little “episode.” She’d bet she’d left scratches to add to the scars on her face from the crash. A familiar lance of anger at life burned through her and Gail flung her leg at the wall, finding vindication as it crashed and rolled onto the floor. Dropping back onto the bed, she squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten. What would Helen say if she saw Gail like this, with a disfigured face and one leg? She rolled over and looked out the window. Perhaps Helen would gather Gail up in her arms and kiss her scars one by one. Perhaps she would tell her like she did before Gail left that she’d love Gail no matter what. Perhaps she’d turn up her nose and leave because Gail couldn’t give her everything she deserved. Because Gail couldn’t live up to the promises they had made laying on the roof of her house. Gail felt a pang of self-loathing as she realized she’d never know what Helen would have said because Helen wasn’t here with her. And it was all Gail’s fault. All her fault that Helen didn’t even know she was still alive. She owed it to Helen. She’d promised to write to her. And she never did. It was all her fault. Maybe she should write a letter.

 

Eventually, Gail fell asleep with tears on her cheeks and Helen’s name on her lips.

 

Gail awoke with a disoriented gasp. She ran her hands over the cotton sheets and took deep breaths. In New York. She was in her apartment in New York. Not in the middle of a battlefield. She was fine.

 

When the birds began chirping outside her window, Gail forced herself up and fetched grains for the birdhouse. A few of the birds had wanted to come into the apartment as usual, and Gail wished she could let them in, but the last time she’d done that, her landlord had a conniption at the marks they’d left in the house. Firmly closing the window and ignoring the frankly shameless begging from her birds, Gail set about drawing her bath. She gave herself a pep talk as she got ready. Today was a new day. And today was a good day (a good day, and Gail would force it to stay one if she had to). She wouldn’t drink tonight or in the afternoon. And she wouldn’t think about Helen or the war even once. Maybe she’d actually go to the show Sidney was talking about yesterday. Maybe she would even join Sidney and Rick and the rest of the guys from the store at the park. But first she needed to get that new pack of cigarettes.


End file.
